


The Party You Have Dialed

by Match (pachipachi)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Canon, Retrospective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pachipachi/pseuds/Match
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy wouldn't call up anyone in Jenifur no matter how much coke you promised. Get enough booze in him and he'd call pretty much anyone else, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Party You Have Dialed

Billy doesn't go to the industry parties anymore. Didn't take long.

Instead he's standing out on the tiny balcony seems like everyone in L.A.'s got, holding the cell phone his manager told him to get and a bottle of liquor people keep telling him is too cheap to be consumed without ironic distance.

Billy has no ironic distance with a bottle in his hand. He could afford the good shit, could probably afford the whole fucking bodega. Instead he gets cheap whiskey, Molson by the case, MD 20/20 in eight unnatural colors. Nothing tastes like home, exactly, but it doesn't need to. The beauty of alcohol is that home is wherever the drink is.

For the first time Billy regrets getting an apartment with a view. Nobody's a bum five stories up. Maybe he should go back to the kitchen, fish the paper bag out of the trash. Stick the bottle in it. If this is his future, he might as well do things up right.

The thing about his building is everyone else is young and they all look alike somehow, even the black kids. Sometimes he thinks he recognizes one of them in a local commercial, or as an audience member on a daytime talk show. For a while the girl above him was getting a lot of bit parts on cop dramas, but it could have been someone else who just looked like her. Or it could have been a couple different girls who happened to get the same nose from the same plastic surgeon.

They want to be someone who couldn't be mistaken for anyone else, but the first thing they do is make themselves all look the same. It's the kind of paradox Joe would pretend to care about and John would turn over for hours, till someone (Billy, if he's honest) would threaten violence if he didn't shut up.

And what the hell, why not, let's find out what John thinks. Billy's got maybe twelve numbers saved to his cell and John's is one. Isn't it earlier where he is? No, later. Doesn't matter.

John answers the phone "Oxenberger," like he's in the army or something. His voice comes slow and clipped, in the halting register Billy recognizes as John On The Meds. And Billy's a mean drunk tonight, but John won't take the bait.

"Have you been writing?" John wants to know.

"Fuck's that got to do with anything?"

There's a pause.

"Been playing," Billy says. It's not much of an answer, but John should know better than to ask. Joe was the mouth, Billy was the fingers. That was how it always worked in the old days, no matter who got whose words down on paper. None of it matters now. Singer, songwriter -- Billy used to have nightmares where Joe ripped off his fingernails and then broke his fingers one by one, left his hands raw and wormlike.

"Yeah, maybe," Joe said when Billy told him about it. "But I'd treat you real good afterwards."

Nurse Billy back to health, feed him with his own hands. "What, you'd hold my dick for me so I wouldn't piss myself?"

Joe's face got this faraway expression, like he was relishing the possibility. Like he was seriously contemplating it. "Sure I would." He smiled, shooting Billy a look that would have been sultry on some girl, on _anybody_ else. "You know I love you."

Don't you say it, Billy thought, don't you fucking dare.

"I think you need to go home," John is saying.

"So what you know about going home?" Billy demands. "You're in fucking _Texas_."

He hangs up.

For a long time home was wherever Joe was. Then home was where Joe wasn't. Now everything's fucked up, and maybe John's right: maybe Billy should go back to B.C. Sit on the edge of Joe's open grave, wait a while. Just until he figures it out.

Billy's head feels like the old days, like he and Joe are out of their minds on speed or meth and staring down the long dead stretch between last call on a Saturday night and the next Monday morning. L.A. is never going to be home, and he wouldn't call anyone else in Jenifur no matter how much coke you promised him. He doesn't know any of their numbers anyway. Why should he, if he barely remembers their names? They're all just Jenifur, a blurry mass of hands and shoulders and too-clean hair.

The girls downstairs seem to have abandoned getting ready to go clubbing in favor of cranking up the stereo and pretending they're already there. Billy can almost make out the lyrics: somebody wants somebody, wants somebody, ooh. Oh baby, baby, in a falsetto that could belong to a man or a woman. It sounds like the liquor tastes: sugar over something raw and open, more potent than it looks.

He picks up the phone again and dials blind. Let his fingers make the decision, his brain's had enough. A woman with a heavy Asian accent answers. Must be Pipe's house. It's his old number, too, and while Billy's trying to figure out if that means anything Pipe's girlfriend asks "Who is calling, please?"

It sounds crisp, like she got it off an ESL cassette. "'S Billy. Tell Pipe 's Billy on the phone." Only halfway through the bottle and he's already beginning to slur.

"You are drunk," she says.

"No shit. C'mon, lemme talk to Pipe."

She sighs loudly. He can almost hear her scowl deepen over the line.

"I will get him now. You do not do nothing stupid-crazy." There's a clatter as she puts down the receiver, then Billy hears her yell "Pipe!" and something in Vietnamese. Pipe's voice, faint in the background, responds with more Vietnamese.

Shit, Billy thinks, he must really love her.

Suddenly Billy wants to take back every mail-order bride crack he's ever made. He wants to talk to her, really talk, and forget Pipe. Why'd he call him anyway? Billy realizes just as suddenly that the only thing he can talk about is music. Pipe's girlfriend probably likes folk music and K-pop, or whatever the hell kind of pop they listen to in Vietnam. Billy hates prefab pop, and he doesn't know shit about folk music. He hangs up before Pipe can answer.

Billy's pretty sure he's not supposed to have Mary's number, but none of the lawyers have given him a talk about restraining orders yet so he figures it's okay. Not okay like buddies, though. Okay like a mild-to-medium hangover. He and Mary could be worse. They'll live.

Back in the day, if you wanted to get in touch with Mary you'd call the next venue and leave a message with some shitassed barback who couldn't fucking spell to save his life. And she'd barge into the green room complaining about bad handwriting, as if she didn't already know what the paper said. Or she'd run into him accidentally-on-purpose at some truck stop down the road, complaining about something else. Billy could ride with her, maybe. They could pull over for a little while. Basically anything was faster than the band van, so they'd probably beat the rest of the guys to the venue anyway.

Mary never let him drive. Probably a good call; Billy pretty much had to have a buzz on to deal with her. That's one thing hasn't changed.

"Hey," he says. "Can I talk to Billie?"

Billy always feels stupid saying the kid's name. He guesses that's why Mary chose it. And maybe he did knock her up, but naming her baby after him just so she could not-tell him about it, wait six years, and then throw everything in his face in public is just about the most passive-aggressive thing Billy's ever seen. It might even be worse than anything Joe pulled. Billy always thought therapy was supposed to turn you into the kind of person who wouldn't do shit like that.

"No, you cannot talk to Billie," she says. "And I assume you mean as a general rule, because you're definitely not talking to her right now. She's asleep."

"You're not, though. Maybe I should talk to you, _Mary_." He tries to sneer but it comes out syrupy-wrong, like a half-assed attempt at phone sex.

"Tell me something. Do you call in the middle of the night like this because the rates are better? Have you considered just getting a different phone plan, so we can do this in the daytime like civilized people?"

It's like she's been saving up all her sarcasm just for him. Billy wonders if it comes naturally, or if she has to sit around planning everything out beforehand.

"Stunts like this only go to show that you don't deserve to get to know Billie. You think this is going to make you look good at the custody hearing? Nice try. Asshole," she adds lamely.

Then she hangs up.

Fucking cunt hung up on me, Billy thinks. As if she doesn't do it every time he calls anyway.

Bucky doesn't have a phone. If he did, Billy wonders, would things have turned out differently?

Even if he could call Bucky, what would he say? Joe smashed your guitar in Edmonton and at first I wanted to kill him but then it didn't matter? Do you still wish you'd found me before he did? How's Naomi? Are you dead yet?

Sorry about the goat, maybe?

And: are you happy, out there with nobody trying to use you? With nobody left to be used?

Billy could recite Bruce's number like it's the toll-free line for a telethon he's been watching too long. The first couple times Bruce called -- after everything, after Edmonton, all that bullshit -- Billy didn't pick up because he didn't recognize the number. Then he didn't pick up because he wanted to see if he could guess what Bruce was going to say. After that it was morbid curiosity. How many times could he leave the same message, and how long would it take for him to give up? Billy's cleared his voicemail at least twice to make room for Bruce, and the guy's still going strong.

"Hey Billy, Bruce here," he might say. "Just checking in, hope you're doing well. Editing's coming right along. We should have a rough cut by ___, depending." The date never seems to get any closer. "Anyway," Bruce would say, "you ever want to come up and do another interview, reflecting on, you know, end of tour, recent events, we can absolutely fit it in. Give me a call any time. Line's always open." And he reads off his number, same one Billy's already punching in, Bruce's cadence in his head like some pretentious jazzhole's idea of a time signature.

He doesn't even wait for the fucker to say hello before laying into him. "So where's the fucking film, Bruce? Where're you hiding it?"

Billy hasn't felt this self-righteous in a long time. He kind of misses it. It feels good, bitching Bruce out like this. Because really, who deserves it more?

Billy knows but he won't say.

"Do you jack off to it? C'mon, you can tell me. There's nobody else here." Billy holds the phone over the edge of the balcony. Pulls it back to his ear, says quietly "I keep secrets."

"Billy, where are you calling from?" Bruce asks. "I can hear traffic." He sounds earnest, like he's got Suicide Prevention on the other line, like he'd be happy to put Billy through, hang on, one moment please.

And that's it. Billy's turned into one of those useless fucks who're so lonely they call crisis hotlines just to let the nice people talk them down. "Fuck you," he says amiably, and hangs up. He isn't sure if he means Bruce or himself.

From where he's standing Billy can see half the street. Down by the corner, some guy with an El Camino's just smashed into a palm tree. He's gotten out, not a scratch on him that Billy can see, and now he's swaying back and forth, staring at what's left of his car like it's a piece of modern art he doesn't understand.

The guy stops, flings out his arms. Puts both hands to his head carefully, like he's trying to crack his own neck. He seems to be managing pretty well until he loses his balance and collapses against the open driver's-side door.

And that's right when the cops show up, a squad car with an ambulance in tow. The guy disappears. Billy hooks one foot into the curlicues of the railing and steps up, craning his neck around all the plants on the next balcony over. Looks like they won't be needing the ambulance; the guy's on hands and knees puking in the gutter. All of the sirens are still going like crazy.

You have to feel _something_ for people like that. Not sorry, exactly, but their particular combination of stupidity and bad luck deserves a little dedicated attention. The bottle's almost empty. Billy wonders what the guy was drinking. He toasts him with the dregs, then stretches out his arm and lets the bottle fall.

He doesn't see it shatter; when he looks down the bottle's already gone, its neck lying several feet away from the rest of the shards. Easy access, Billy thinks. If, if. Everybody's right there anyway.

Down the street, the cops have hauled the guy up, cuffed him, and propped him against his car. The paramedics are kibitzing, standing around watching the cops. Nobody seems to have noticed the glass breaking. Even if they did, they haven't turned around. One of the paramedics is gesturing with his cigarette. It's such cheap irony that Billy wants to laugh, in the leaky giggle of the professional lush, but he knows he'd lose his balance.

He steps down from the railing. Another chance gone.

Maybe that was Joe's real talent: to know a chance when it came, to slip in and take it.

Joe is the palm tree, Billy thinks. Thinks he should make a note of it. That way, next time he talks to John, he'll be able to say he's been writing.


End file.
